


Grey or Blue

by melonbug



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, PWP, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:02:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonbug/pseuds/melonbug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is nothing between them before John surges forward to claim his lips. Nothing more than friendship and longing and desire, undisclosed wants and words only whispered in the late night hours when the other is not around to hear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grey or Blue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is basically a smutty PWP that took me way longer to write than it should have. Hope you guys enjoy!

Their entire evening has been rather like something out of a movie. **  
  
** They've just spent the last few hours running through the streets of London on a chase complete with explosions and gunfire, a hostage situation, and at least one car accident somewhere in-between (no one was hurt, thank goodness.) The adrenaline still has them on edge when they finally burst into the flat, the door creaking loudly on it’s hinges from the force with which it’s thrown open. **  
  
** John stumbles in first, laughing, because they’d just caught a criminal, and they’d nearly died three times in the process and his heart is still pounding much too loudly in his ears to be as horrified about that as he should. **  
  
** Sherlock is close behind him, and the man falls back against the door once he closes it, a breathless laugh on his lips as well. He looks at John, eyes gleaming, and  _ grins _ . There’s dust in his hair, as well as bits of drywall, both from the explosion earlier, and it clings beautifully to his curls, which are windblown and disheveled from the chase. His face is still slightly flushed from their run through the streets, and his lips are parted just so,  _ beautifully _ **** so, as he catches his breath. **  
  
** Their eyes meet and John’s own gasping breaths catch in his throat and just like that he decides to kiss him. **  
  
** There is nothing between them before John surges forward to claim his lips. Nothing more than friendship and longing and desire, undisclosed wants and words only whispered in the late night hours when the other is not around to hear. **  
  
** John presses up close to him, on his tip toes, and Sherlock hums deep in his throat before bending lower to accommodate him, to slant his lips just so against John’s, and it’s wonderful, so _ wonderful _ . His lips are cold and chapped from their recent adventure through the cold London air, but beyond that, it’s warm, the ghost of air that caresses John’s own lips as Sherlock draws back to exhale is  _ warm _ . **  
  
** Then cold hands come up to cradle John’s face, to draw him back impossibly closer, and the doctor shivers beneath the touch as their lips meet again. It’s less chaste this time, urgency bleeding into their movements, and John parts his lips, inviting in the warmth that is Sherlock’s breath and Sherlock’s tongue and then everything is completely and wholly  _ Sherlock _ **** as the man accepts. **  
  
** His hands find their way into Sherlock’s hair quite suddenly, and the detective shudders as fingertips drag across his scalp. His own hands fall down to hold John’s shoulders, their grip there alternating between tight and painful, especially where a thumb digs into the corner of scar tissue hidden beneath too many layers of fabric. **  
  
** Everything blurs around the edges as the kiss dissolves into a mess of tongues and teeth and frantic inhales of air whenever the opportunity arises. John wonders, for a second, if Sherlock is so good at this because he’s had lots of practice or if it’s because he is a natural. He hopes it’s the latter. The thought of Sherlock kissing anyone but him is enough to almost sour the mood and he pushes the thought away, curling his fingers tighter into the mess of black curls. **  
  
** When they finally break away, they’re panting and using each other to stay standing, faces still so close that they are breathing the same air and John is dizzy from the proximity. **  
  
** Sherlock whispers his name  _ john _ **** and it is breathy and soft and John moans before he can stop himself, letting his eyes flutter closed. When he opens them, the consulting detective is watching him with piercing eyes, studying his every feature as if it were the first time he has ever lain eyes on him, and it is all John can do not to  _ drown _ **** in the depths of those gorgeous, gorgeous eyes. **  
  
** And for all he knows, he already has. He’s faint from the feeling, from the intensity of their kissing and of Sherlock’s gaze, and the adrenaline is still there, his heart beating too loudly in his ears but now it’s for a completely different reason. **  
  
** Fingers brush his jaw and he shudders, inclining his head into the touch, and then Sherlock is closing the distance between them once more, pulling him into yet another kiss. And if their previous kisses were intense, this one is ten times so in it’s exploratory gentleness, in the way Sherlock moves his lips against John’s in an almost aggravating slowness. **  
  
** Sherlock leads the kiss entirely this time and he takes his sweet time in acquainting himself with every corner of John’s mouth. His tongue is anything but hesitant in it’s journey, though, instead probing and eager and John curls his fingers into the fabric of Sherlock’s jacket in a feeble attempt to ground himself against the onslaught. Fingers wrap around the back of his neck and he groans as Sherlock drags him up once more onto tip toes to gain better access. **  
  
** He tastes faintly of coffee, John notes through the haze- strong and black and extra sugar. It’s not entirely unpleasant and, regardless, John finds himself beyond caring as Sherlock swipes his tongue across the roof of his mouth, curls it  _ just so _ **** in order to tease it along the back of his teeth. **  
  
** The man is far too gifted with his mouth and with his tongue and John moans, pleasure spiking immediately south at the thought of what else he is capable of doing with such a gift. It’s enough that he forgets to breath, forgets anything and everything that isn’t  _ Sherlock _ **** and what Sherlock is somehow  _ doing _ **** to him. **  
  
** John trembles slightly and Sherlock just keeps at it, dragging his fingers through dishwater hair, ghosting a hand over the side of John’s face and down over his throat, a calloused thumb working it’s way beneath the neck of his jumper to brush over his collar bone. **  
  
** When he does finally pull away, it isn’t even to stop, but instead to lavish the attention elsewhere, and John is left gasping in the wake of everything. He kisses his way to John’s jaw, nipping and tasting and as gentle and slow as before. It’s all John can do just to tilt his head for him as Sherlock reaches his throat, lips brushing his pulse and tongue darting out to press against it, to better feel his too fast heartbeat. **  
  
** ** “ ** _ Sherlock _ ,” John breathes out between pants, rolling his hips forward unconsciously, and the detective draws away abruptly. John starts at the sudden lack of contact and warmth and he stares up at Sherlock, who seems suddenly to tower over him. His expression is unreadable, though John’s best guess is that it’s somewhere between amused and aroused, and he looks a good deal more composed than John feels. He is pleased, though, to see that his lips are red and deliciously swollen from the kissing and that a faint flush is creeping across his face. **  
  
** He takes hold of one of John’s wrists, slender fingers sliding beneath his jacket and jumper sleeves, ghosting across his pulse and settling there. John let’s his eyes flicker down to where the fingers disappear and then back up again to meet Sherlock’s eyes. His pupils are dilated and John knows his own are as well. He licks his lips, exhaling softly, and watches as Sherlock makes a show of repeating the action, slipping that talented tongue between his perfect lips to swipe across them slowly. And that, alone, is enough to make John weak in the knees. **  
  
** After several, torturous minutes of standing like this, of Sherlock’s fingers pressing insistently along his wrist, of John struggling to maintain eye contact, Sherlock speaks. **  
  
** ** “ ** What do you want, John?” He asks softly, and his voice is low and rough and the sound of it sends John’s blood rushing south. “Tell me what you want.” He drops John’s wrist and straightens, his eyes flickering downward ever so briefly (no doubt eyeing the prominent bulge in John’s trousers) before meeting John’s once more. **  
  
** John swallows, all at once hesitant. It’s ridiculous, really, and he knows it. Here he’s stood kissing his flatmate, his  _ best friend _ , for god only knows how long, and god only knows how long he’s  _ wanted _ **** to do this, and here he is unable to form words. **  
  
** Sherlock looks at him expectantly, eyes half lidded, and when John still doesn’t respond, he smirks and then leans in close to whisper, “ _ Tell me _ , John,” and his lips brush John’s ear as he says it, and he lifts one hand to curl it deliberately against John’s neck, to stroke his thumb over his adam’s apple and tangle his fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. **  
  
** It’s all the encouragement John needs, and he lets out a strangled noise before choking out, “ _ You _ . I want  _ you _ .” **  
  
** ** “ ** _ How _ **** do you want me, John?” Sherlock’s lips are against his neck again, his warm breath caressing the still damp skin left there in the aftermath of his previous ministrations. **  
  
** ** “ ** In- in  _ every _ **** _ way _ ,” he gasps out, reaching up to fumble with Sherlock’s scarf, because it’s occurred to him, quite suddenly, that it isn’t fair that Sherlock should have such access to his neck while he, in return, should have none. And he has such a painfully beautiful neck, really, all long and pale, and it’s a shame that he keeps it hidden away all day beneath scarves and coat collars. **  
  
** ** “ ** I want every part of you,” he continues breathlessly, ridding him of the scarf with relative ease and swiping his thumb along the underside of Sherlock’s jaw, “In  _ every possible way _ .” **  
  
** ** “ ** Is that so?” Sherlock grins against his neck before parting his lips to suck hard at a spot just below John’s ear. He pulls back once he’s satisfied with the mark he’s made and the noises he’s drawn from the doctor. “Do you want me on my knees, John, hmm?” He leans in until their standing chest to chest again, until their faces are only inches apart and once more they are sharing the same air. He licks his lips and John stares at them, wide-eyed, his heart racing. “I can show you what other talents I possess, show you all of the things I am capable of doing to a person with just my mouth.” **  
  
** Sherlock drops his hands to John’s hips, squeezing them and dragging them forward and flush against his own. “ _ Answer me _ , John.  _ Do _ **** you?” **  
  
** John all but falls forward against the man at the sweet friction the meeting of their hips creates, burying his face in the now exposed throat. “ _ Yes, _ **** yesyes _ yes _ ,” he chokes out, “ _ Please _ .” **  
  
** Sherlock doesn’t drop to his knees, though. Instead, he steps back to tug off his coat, ridding himself of the tortuously bulky layer between them. **  
  
** ** “ ** Right here, John?” he asks, hanging his coat on the door, “Or shall we take this to the bedroom?” **  
  
** John stops listening after the first question, images of Sherlock on his knees sucking him off  _ right here _ **** in his head. In their sitting room, right in front of the door where both they and company enter and exit so regularly. Both of them still fully dressed. There’s a certain thrill about it that doing this in the bedroom doesn’t quite come close to fulfilling. **  
  
** In front of him, Sherlock murmurs, “I see,” and then he does drop to his knees. He reaches immediately for John’s belt, and rids him of it with skilled fingers, working his trousers open and down his hips in a matter of seconds. John groans and opens and closes his fists at his sides, hesitant and nervous as Sherlock’s eyes roam over his now exposed erection. **  
  
** ** “ ** Beautiful,” he breathes softly, tracing one, solitary finger along the top. John gasps, even from that small amount of contact, and fights to keep his hands at his sides. “Look at me, John,” Sherlock demands suddenly, voice louder and rougher and John feels his cock twitch from the sound of it alone. **  
  
** He does as he’s told and drags his eyes open, looking down. Their eyes meet and Sherlock grins wickedly before leaning forward to let his tongue flick across the slit, lapping up the small bead of precome that’s gathered there. He doesn’t once break eye contact with him as he does this, and John can’t bring himself to do so either, hypnotized by those eyes. He’s still staring into them, lost in pools of gray-blue, when Sherlock leans all the way forward and takes him completely into his mouth. **  
  
** And just like that the spell is broken and John tosses his head back and  _ gasps _ , fingers flying into Sherlock’s curls, scrabbling for purchase against his scalp. Sherlock’s tongue is as talented as he’s been led to believe, and it works expertly along the head, swirling and dipping into the slit before sliding down to tease the underside. **  
  
** He sets a steady pace like this, bobbing his head slowly. He digs his fingers into John’s hips to hold them still, and John is immensely thankful as it’s becoming more and more difficult to stop himself from thrusting forward. Sherlock’s mouth is hot and wet and his tongue like the softest velvet as it slides further and further along the shaft, and John can barely resist the promising heat and tightness awaiting him should he thrust deeper. **  
  
** It needn’t matter though, because Sherlock all but invites him in. He flattens his tongue and  _ swallows _ **** and John knows he must be pulling the man’s hair now but Sherlock doesn’t pause to acknowledge any discomfort, instead working his tongue as best he can as he fights his gag reflex. He draws back almost immediately, flicking his tongue once more across the slit, circling the glans, and then he slides forward to swallow him again. He hums, deep in his throat, and it vibrates up through John’s erection and he knows that he isn’t going to last much longer. **  
  
** Sherlock has other plans though, and he repeats the motion once, twice, and then draws away entirely. John whimpers rather pitifully, because he’s close,  _ soclose _ , and he wants nothing more than to thrust deeper into that mouth and come. **  
  
** But Sherlock isn’t having any of that, and he tightens his grip on John’s hips even as he looks up at him and licks his shining lips. **  
  
** ** “ ** Bedroom,” he all but growls out, and it isn’t a question or a suggestion but an order. He drags John’s trousers up around his waist and then rises, all in one swift, graceful movement that leaves John’s head swimming. He isn’t given time to protest or respond, not that he wants to do either, before Sherlock is dragging him into a heated kiss. It’s different in so many ways than the ones prior, hot and fast and rough, and instead of coffee, John now tastes  _ himself  _ on Sherlock’s tongue. **  
  
** Making it to the bedroom is a challenge, as much as pulling away from each other long enough to breath and  _ move _ , but they do, eventually. And John isn’t given time to reflect on the surprisingly tidy state of Sherlock’s room, as lips are on him again, on his  _ neck _ , and fingers are sliding beneath his jumper, cold and long and  _ teasing _ **** in the way they careful skirt the waistband of his only half on trousers. **  
  
** At long last, Sherlock pulls away to start ridding himself of his clothes, and John falls onto the bed, tugging frantically at his shoes. Never in his life does he believe he’s ever had so much trouble with shoe laces, or with buttons, and the distraction of watching Sherlock bare expanse after expanse of pale, beautiful skin doesn’t help him in his concentration. Sherlock is in nothing but his underwear by the time he takes pity on him and stoops down to help John out of his trousers. **  
  
** He lifts his hips obligingly and Sherlock tugs his trousers and pants down and tosses them somewhere nearby before returning his hands to John’s legs, ghosting his fingers along them with an appreciative noise. John feels suddenly self conscious, for the first time since that impulsive kiss out in the sitting room, and it’s rather silly, really, considering Sherlock also sucked his cock in said sitting room. **  
  
** He drags in a stuttering breath and forgets how the buttons of his shirt work as Sherlock peels off his socks and lifts his leg to brush his lips against his ankle. It’s a startlingly intimate but simple gesture, and Sherlock makes the most of it, trailing lingering kisses up the length of his calf, fingers massaging smooth circles into the sensitive flesh just above his ankle. **  
  
** ** “ ** John,” Sherlock murmurs against the crook of his knee, darting out his tongue to tease it along the prominent bone there, “God, I want you so much, John.” **  
  
** John has to swallow a moan before he can answer. “Then have me.” **  
  
** Sherlock’s responding noise is something between a laugh and a moan and is muffled by his face pressing into John’s leg. “I plan to. I definitely plan to.” And then he lurches up to kiss him hard and more than a little bit rough, and John returns it enthusiastically and gives it back to him tenfold, utterly consumed by this man and all too willing to consume in return. **  
  
** Fingers scrabble at the remaining buttons of John’s shirt, and then Sherlock is pushing it away eagerly, dragging his hands over every inch of newly exposed flesh, tracing the planes of his chest and the lines of his body. He reaches the scar on his shoulder and his fingers gain a new found wonder, scrabbling across it and brushing insistently and curiously at the rough, raised scar tissue. **  
  
** Sherlock has, by now, broken their kiss in favor of studying it. Without the heat of the kiss John is made ever more aware of their new proximity, of Sherlock’s narrower hips straddling his own, their erections so close that the slightest movement might send them brushing together. John wills himself to be still and endure, instead, Sherlock’s exploration, no matter how tempting the possibilities of their position are. **  
  
** Until Sherlock finally decides that just touching and seeing aren’t enough and slithers down to bury his face against the scar and to drag his tongue along the edge where the skin is extra sensitive. And then John finally forgets their positions and jerks, rolling his hips up into Sherlock’s and digging his fingers into his shoulders. He feels more than hears Sherlock’s resulting noise, muffled as it is, and then the man is pushing him onto his back, the scar all but forgotten. **  
  
** Sherlock pants against his neck. “Gonna have you so hard,” he growls into the flushed, sweaty skin there, “Gonna have you on your back so I can see your face as you come.” **  
  
** John moans. “ _ Yes _ .” He all but clings to the man on top of him, arching his back, driving their bodies together- hips to hips (cock to cock, his mind supplies through the fog of pleasure,) chest to chest, and his toes curl at the feel of bare skin flush against bare skin. **  
  
** ** “ ** Yes,” he repeats when his senses are his own and he is again able to run the words through his head, “ _ That _ .” **  
  
** And then the weight is gone and his skin is left to gather goosebumps in the sudden wash of cold air. He arches his neck awkwardly, struggling to see where Sherlock has gone, and finds him rummaging in the nightstand drawer, for lube and condoms, no doubt. **  
  
** John laughs and pulls himself all the way onto the bed, his position less than comfortable without Sherlock there as a distraction. He settles near the headboard and grins. “On my back, you said?” **  
  
** Sherlock finds what he’s looking for and drops it onto the bed. “Yes. God,  _ yes _ .” He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his underwear and works them down over his hips and off before quickly clambering onto the bed. **  
  
** He cages John with his limbs and dips his head to capture his lips in a quick kiss. Then he shuffles back, fingers dancing and sliding and slowly making their way down over the heated flesh of his chest. They brush his cock, teasingly, and John clutches at the sheets and squeezes his eyes closed and knows what comes next. **  
  
** A thumb swipes across the slit, gathering precome and massaging it into the glans. Fingers, suddenly more hesitant than before, wrap fully around his erection. Sherlock’s other hand snatches up the abandoned bottle of lube and John hears him pop the cap open. **  
  
** ** “ ** John,” he murmurs questioningly, releasing his cock and resting his hand along the inside of one of John’s spread legs. **  
  
** John spreads them further, lifting his hips. “ _ Yes _ ,” he answers, reaching forward blindly to clasp the hand on his leg. He opens his eyes and meets Sherlock’s and the man releases a ragged breath. **  
  
** They stare into each other’s eyes for a long minute and then the moment passes and Sherlock is touching him again. **  
  
** He brushes a too light touch across John’s balls and then finally,  _ finally _ **** slides his hand down to his ass, spreading his cheeks and stroking a finger across the puckered hole there. John gasps and then the hand is gone only to return a second later, this time slick and cool with lube. **  
  
** The finger goes back to teasing his hole, circling around it, and John whimpers rather pathetically, thrusting his hips forward as if Sherlock will suddenly relent in his teasing and give him what he wants. He does, to his surprise, and John chokes out a noise that’s something between a groan and a grunt and bites his lip as the finger slips inside slowly. He clenches around it at the sudden intrusion, caught between discomfort and pleasure at being filled, and wills himself to relax. **  
  
** And then Sherlock’s finger brushes across something (not just ‘something’, John knows what it is) and he’s seeing spots and crying out before he can stop himself. The detective repeats the movement, thrusting his finger in once, twice, and then pulling it out entirely to apply more lube and press two back against his quivering hole. John wiggles and nods at the silent question, and then they’re easing inside and he’s curling his fingers into the sheets and thrusting up to meet them. **  
  
** Sherlock takes his time stretching him open, working his fingers carefully, scissoring them and then curling them into his prostate just so. **  
  
** By the time he has three fingers in, John is a sweaty, begging mess. His cock is hard and heavy against his stomach and he’s desperate to touch it, only Sherlock bats his hands away when he tries. He settles for clinging to the sheets again instead and matching Sherlock’s fingers thrust for thrust. **  
  
** And then those fingers are gone, leaving him stretched and empty and yearning for more. He drops his head back and breathes out slowly, willing himself to be patient. **  
  
** Sure enough, just moments later, the press of something firm and hard is back against his entrance and he knows that it’s something so much better than fingers this time. Sherlock pants out his name above him, and John arches up into the brush of fingers across his collar bone, and then he’s sliding in slowly, too _ slowly _ . John scrambles futilely, trying to thrust himself down onto Sherlock’s cock, but the man grabs his hips and holds fast as he sinks into him. **  
  
** When he’s finally in to the hilt, he stops, his breathing hard and ragged, and he lays himself over John as best he can, burying his face in his neck. **  
  
** ** “ ** Sh-Sherlock.” John trembles with want, angling his hips up and against Sherlock’s. The man let’s out a warm puff of breath against his neck and then he  _ moves _ . **  
  
** The first roll of his hips is  _ heaven _ , and John cries out as Sherlock’s cock brushes  _ just right _ **** against his prostate. The next thrust he meets with one of his own, and that’s even better and John is beyond words and when he next opens his mouth to say something he can’t quite string anything together other than, “ _ Jesuschristohmygod, _ ** ”  ** in rapid succession. **  
  
** Sherlock is in a similar state, and each snap of his hips has him moaning so beautifully and making other noises that John has only ever imagined him making in his sweetest, dirtiest dreams. He’s shaking and pressing his face against John’s neck, lapping at the skin there, sucking and marking it, and then whispering against it words that John can’t hear. **  
  
** Their movements become more frantic by the second, each thrust faster and harder and more  _ obscene _ , and John clings to Sherlock, fingers scrabbling for purchase along the expanse of his pale back. It’s wonderful and John is completely high on Sherlock,  _ drowning _ **** in him and what he is doing to him. And Sherlock is similarly incoherent with the pleasure, and John delights in knowing that he has driven this man to the string of noises he is breathing into his neck. **  
  
** He’s not going to last much longer, John can tell. Not that that’s a problem, because John is hardly going to last much longer himself. He’s almost there already,  _ soclose _ **** it hurts, and he snakes a hand between them to wrap it around his cock, only for Sherlock to knock his hand away as he had before. For one, terrible moment, John thinks he won’t be allowed to finish yet but then Sherlock fists his own hand around him, firm and unyielding, and  _ strokes  _ and John sees white. **  
  
** He comes,  _ hard _ , crying out Sherlock’s name and digging nails into his back. Sherlock strokes him through it, snapping his own hips forward hard once more before stilling and coming as well. **  
  
** ** “ ** John, oh god,  _ John, _ ** ”  ** Sherlock pants into his neck when he finally stops shaking and he pulls out. John is nothing more than a boneless heap below him and he sags into the sheets, utterly spent and sated. Sherlock’s hand finds his own and they intertwine their fingers as the detective collapses next to him. **  
  
** John turns his head to look at him and finds that his face is flushed and his hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, and he looks like a man that has just had the greatest sex of his life. And he quite possibly has. **  
  
** John certainly has. **  
  
** ** “ ** Sherlock,” he whispers, and the man’s eyes fly open to stare back at him and John is left catching his breath all over again. He squeezes his hand. “I think-” He swallows the lump in his throat and slides closer. Sherlock drapes his arm over him and squeezes his hand in return. **  
  
** ** “ ** Yes, John?” He sounds as breathless as John feels. **  
  
** ** “ ** I think I love you,” he says softly, at last. Sherlock cocks his head and seems to study his face for several, long minutes before quirking his lips in a small smile and dragging him flush against him. **  
  
** ** “ ** You just think?” he asks softly, but there is humour in his voice. **  
  
** John laughs into his neck. “Certain. I’m quite certain I love you.” **  
  
** ** “ ** Mmm. I’m quite certain I love you, as well, John,” he murmurs and presses a kiss to John’s forehead.

 


End file.
